Afterglow
by samchandler1986
Summary: Sam and Ruth continue their co-dependency by other means after the show finishes.


"Thought I'd find you out here."

She smiles up at him, arms wrapped around her knees. "Needed some air."

"Yeah, yeah." He sits next to her on the fire escape, taking in the clear night sky. "You'll be okay."

"Oh, I know. I'm just… it's sad you know? We had a great run together. And… and living together in that motel? I'm going to miss waking up every day with everyone just _there_." A shake of her head. "I still can't believe you made us do that, by the way."

He taps out a cigarette from the box. "Worked, though."

"Yeah," she agrees, losing herself for a moment to the stars. "I'll never forget it."

He makes a _so-so_ movement with his head. "That's what they all say before they get really famous."

"Oh, haha." A beat of comfortable silence. "What about you?"

"Oh, you know." He makes a play of smoking, buying himself time. "I'm fine. I'm always fine. I've got things lined up."

"Mmm."

"No, really, I have," he says. "If I can just… you know. Not screw it up this time."

"That's the trick." She risks a glance at his face. "You can… always call me, you know?"

He makes the mistake of meeting her eyes. "I know," he says. He's been trying not to think about their co-dependency; the habit they've fallen into of bantering back and forth until they can make sense of the world together. Trying not to imagine what will take its place now GLOW is over. "I will."

She gives herself a little shake, and looks away. "We should go back inside."

"Uh-huh."

Neither of them move, something else hanging unspoken in the air between them. He blows smoke, and wonders if it's worth trying to put into words. Probably not, he decides. They'd only have fucked everything up if they'd tried.

"Come on," he says instead, trying not to groan as he finds his feet. He offers her his hand, and together they walk back to the wrap party.

* * *

For the last eighteen months _Julio's_ has been his Sunday ritual. Coffee, scripts, story notes and a plan for the week. Sometimes Debbie joined in, often Justine. Most regularly Ruth. On more than one occasion the whole group came, packing out the café with riotous noise. A circus, but it was _his_ circus. He can't help but miss it.

It's been three weeks, but his treacherous feet have led him back. Old habits. He stands, looking at the mullioned window like a man in a dream. As if he's travelled through time to get here, a visitor from another era. Which is crazy, he tells himself, _crazy_. He pushes open the door, determined to end the strange hold the place has over him.

And of course, inside, nothing has changed. It's only been three fucking weeks. He waits in line at the counter—

"Sam?"

He turns, blinks; as surprised to see her as she is him. "Ruth."

"Hi."

"I'm just going to—"

"Oh, sure, yeah—"

There is an awkward moment while he waits to receive his order, uncomfortably aware of her presence and not at all sure whether he should—or maybe not—

"Does this feel weird to you?" he says, bringing his coffee over to her table. "It feels weird, right?"

"A little weird. You wanna sit down?"

"Sure. Sure. We're friends. We can do that."

"If you want to."

"Yeah, I want to." He sits. "So… how've you been?"

"Oh, good, you know. Auditions…" She makes a face; changes the subject. "You still come here every Sunday?"

"No, actually. First time since we wrapped."

"Ha, me too. What are the odds?"

He raises his eyebrow in response, and takes a sip of coffee. Probably the odds were quite high; they're both creatures of habit, routine. But it's nice to feel, just sometimes, that the Universe isn't out to screw them in its capriciousness.

* * *

The weather has turned, damp in the air. He hurries along, into the warm and dry of the café, lifting his eyes to their usual table—

And she isn't there. The weight of that fact settles in his stomach. Of course, there's no reason why she _should_ be there. Just that she has been, for the last four Sundays. And he has too, he supposes. Routine again.

Did she say? Was he so absorbed in telling her about his latest pitch he forgot to listen to her plans? He takes his coffee as usual, reasoning vaguely that she may only be late. By the time he's finished his cup, his neck aches from turning to look at the opening door so many times. She isn't coming. _Fuck_.

He slams his mug down, filthily angry for reasons he can't fathom, and slouches back out onto the street.

* * *

He is typing, cigarette dangling, when the 'phone trills. He ignores it at first; no producer is going to be calling at this time of the evening, which thins the options down to pretty much just his ex-wife.

 _Beep. "_ Hi, Sam," says the answer-machine in the voice of Ruth. "Missed you at the coffee shop again today. Give me a call—?"

"Hey."

"Oh," she says, flustered as he takes the place of the machine. "Hi Sam. So, you are in."

"Writing, sorry," he says shortly. Why did he pick up the handset? Now he's talking to her he remembers how _annoyed_ he is—

"Well, that's a good sign."

"Eh," he demurs. "How come you weren't around?"

"Well, I rang to say the same to you. I figured you were probably busy…"

"Yeah," he lies. The truth of the matter, his irritation at the lack of her presence, seems a very odd thing to admit to in this moment. "Hey, did you get a call back from McTaggart?"

"Oh…" she says, and he already knows her answer. "No. No, not this time."

"Well, he's a moron." All the swirling vitriol he has he pours into the words. "Wouldn't know talent if walked in and bit his dick off."

She laughs at that, in a slightly appalled way, and some of the knot of tension in his chest loosens. He tries not to think about what _that_ means.

* * *

This Sunday she has sides with her. She lets him take a few sips before she speaks, caffeine trilling in his veins. It's not even close to cocaine, but sobriety turns out to be a habit like everything else after enough time. _Then_ she pushes them across to him, expression meaningful.

He sighs through his nose, but takes a read. It's good. Annoyingly good. He says as much.

"I know, right? I just can't seem to… _get_ it though."

He smooths down his moustache, considering his words. Explaining that her likability is in exact opposite proportion to her level of desperation probably isn't what she needs to hear right now.

"Well, we could workshop it? Use the studio space down on Lindblade Street?" He smiles, enjoying her reaction.

"You have use of… Did you get the job!?"

"Yeah. Turns out the producer is a big fan of Blood Disco. Get this – he actually had to study it in college. I'm guest directing a double bill."

"That's great!"

"Yeah, well, it means I'm feeling generous."

"Then I will make the most of your kind offer." She stands, offering him her elbow. "Shall we?"

He rolls his eyes, but takes her arm anyway. "Yeah," he says. "Alright."

* * *

"Look," she says, "you have to let someone else at least _look_ at it. Or it's going to be _Mothers and_ _—_ "

"Don't say that."

She sighs. "It's the truth. At least let _me_ see. I edited scripts for you all the time for GLOW—"

"Yeah, I know but this is…"

"This is different? Really?"

He hates it when she sees right through him, always has. "… Fine."

"Good." She sits back, busying herself with her mug. She can't possibly _know_ how smug she looks, when she smiles like that.

He wonders when it turned from annoying into endearing.

* * *

He's beginning to regret coming, awkward in the auditorium, seemingly two decades older than everyone else in the theatre. He picks at the label on his beer—

"Hello, you," says a familiar voice.

He turns to see Debbie, luminous as ever, and smiling at him. Which makes a change. "Debbie," he says, accepting his kisses. "You look great."

"I was going to say the same to you, actually." She gives him a shrewd up and down. "Ruth told me you're working on _Three Hills_. Pretty big deal."

"Well, it's not _Scorsese_ big—"

"Oh, please. It was a bit part."

"Good bit though. You're getting seen, right? Yeah, I knew it."

"Mm, enough work chat." She drains her glass. "You ready for this?"

"You've seen it already?"

"Twice."

"Fuck, that good?"

"Yeah. And Ruth is—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know—"

"—a _mazing_ ," they say together.

* * *

They meet the cast in the bar afterwards, Ruth seeming even tinier than usual after her towering performance. He's glad of Debbie's company, an anchor from another life. Nice as the young actors seem, he's not part of their world right now; that crazy bond that comes from living and breathing the same words, the same _world_ together for weeks and months. Ruth is, and there's an uneasy dick-measuring feel to it all: who knows her best out of all those gathered here.

The three of them retreat to a bar across the street and the tension drains. Years of mending fences in the ring, he thinks, watching his former co-stars, former enemies, laugh together. Time isn't always cruel.

"Mmm," says Debbie, swirling her glass. " _I_ have to drop Randy off at kindergarten in the morning." She gives them a lopsided smile. "I'd offer to share a cab…"

"I know. Wrong direction." Ruth embraces her friend. "I'll see you Friday."

Debbie gives him a hug, too. It almost feels like some of her star quality hangs on him as she withdraws, a hint of glitter in the wool of his jumper. "Good to see you Sam."

"You too, Liberty Belle."

"Haha," she winces, but adds in Liberty's drawl: "Until the next time, wrestling fans!"

They share the quiet in her wake. "Hey, you never said what happened with the network meeting."

"Oh, it got rescheduled." He finishes his beer. "To tomorrow."

"Oh, shit!" She checks her watch. "You should go—it's almost eleven—"

"Not everyone's a giant nerd," he replies scathingly. "I'll be fine. It's not until midday anyway."

"Yeah, but you need to prepare—"

He shakes his head, smiling so she can see the joke. "This isn't my first rodeo."

"Hmm."

"What?"

She gives him a shrewd look. "Wanna run the pitch with me?"

"No." He resists her puppy-dog eyes. "It's fine. I know what I'm doing."

She's almost pouting. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"Okay then."

How they end up sharing the cab back to his apartment anyway is forever a mystery.

* * *

"Place looks nice," she says, as he drops his keys by the door. "Did you have a _date_?" She says it sing-song teasing.

"… Maybe."

"How'd it go?"

"Eh."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I mean, I'm working with a limited appeal at this point—"

"Don't be self-pitying." She looks him up and down. "Is that what you wore?"

"I don't need _help_ ," he snaps. "Don't help me." He purses his lips, admits defeat. "Yeah, this is what I wore."

She shrugs. "Her loss."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's what she's still thinking."

He stumps into the kitchen, wanting a moment away from her to regain some dignity and composure. Predictably, she follows him. "So, what did you really think?"

"About what?" She doesn't want to elaborate, and it take an awkward moment for the penny drop. "Oh, the tonight thing. What do you want me to say? You know how good you were. Critics have been raving for weeks."

"Yeah, but what did _you_ think?"

He draws in a deep breath. "Staging could be a little tighter in the second act. And I don't like that Gene guy."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Maybe it's just his face. I dunno."

"Nuanced criticism there."

"Shut up," he smiles. "You asked for honesty."

"I did, I did…" She looks away for a moment, considering… something. His stomach lurches, for no damn reason at all. "I wanted to thank you. Also honestly."

"Ah, no—"

"No, just listen. I wouldn't have got the part without that afternoon workshopping—"

"Shut up," he says again. "You would. You're smart, and talented…" He seems to be losing contact with his body, as he takes an involuntary step towards her, mouth flapping on in flagrant disregard of his brain. "… and beautiful." He takes her unresisting hand in his, and for a fleeting second there is something in the space between them again, an old question…

One, it turns out, he still can't face.

"And _really_ fucking irritating when you dig for compliments," he finishes, taking the road to safety.

She cracks. "Fuck you," she laughs.

"I wish you would! It might sort out this burning tension between us." And it's a joke, he's sure. A ha-ha, funny joke…

She steps closer, into the proximity that flips a primal set of switches in his monkey brain, where he can smell the soap from washing away her stage make-up. He's suddenly very much aware of the fact she's braless under her shirt; no part of his body more so than his dick. Nothing seems very funny anymore, a gaping chasm is opening-up under his feet. One false step and he risks losing everything.

"Are you feeling… tense?" she teases, oblivious to his sudden dread, all breathy Marilyn.

"Yeah," he manages, so close his nose bumps hers. "A little tense, actually—"

She kisses him.

For a fraction of a second he wonders _why_ —why here and now—but then the rest of his body outvotes the tiny core of introspection, and he's not thinking at all anymore. Her mouth opens under his and— _fuck, fuck_ —her body is against him; he's _embarrassingly_ hard already, pressed into her.

If life was a film he'd fuck her there and then on the kitchen counter. But it's a small apartment, and there's the depressing reality of undone washing up on the sides. Instead, she wraps herself around him and he carries her to the couch. She tugs at his belt; he has just enough presence of mind left to fumble a condom out of his wallet with one hand, while the other slides under her shirt.

His thumb finds a nipple, draws a gasp. She pulls down his pants in retaliation. Fumble fingered he returns the favour, and she unrolls the condom and guides him inside. It's fast, rough and desperate. He comes predictably quickly; so shudderingly intense his vision strobes. "Jesus Christ," he manages, after a while, and she just laughs. "Fuck _me_."

"Pretty sure I just did."

"Yeah," he agrees, "I noticed." Weighs up his options, and it's his turn to grin. "Wanna go again?"

* * *

The second time is slower, in his bed, the edge taken off his frantic need giving him capacity to think of hers. She rides him home, collapsing down onto him, gasping in unison. He runs a hand along her back, intending to hold her close—

She shakes he head. "I have to go. It's one o'clock."

"You can stay," he says, managing to omit the desperate sounding _please_.

"You'll sleep better without me here."

"Who gives a fuck about _sleep_?"

"You should," she laughs, rolling off him, finding her clothes. "Big day tomorrow. Shit, today. Remember?"

"I'm not going to sleep after that," he lies.

She puts her head on one side. "Yes, you are." She taps his alarm clock to reset for a sensible get-up. "I'll see you Sunday."

"No, don't go—" he says pathetically, hating himself for it but unable to hold the words in his mouth.

"Sleep well, Sam." With that, she is gone.

He lets out a long breath in the silence after the door slams. "What. The actual. Fuck?" he manages, before sleep claims him as swiftly she predicted.

* * *

This is probably a very bad idea, he thinks, as he pulls onto her road. He has no idea when she'll be back from tonight's performance. Or if she's even coming home tonight—

He derails that train of thought, settles in to waiting. His brain has been quietly ticking over all day. He half wonders if that's why she did it; he's never conducted a pitch so calmly before in his life. But even Ruth probably isn't that much of a control freak. Probably.

He's been sitting like some kind of stalker for an hour, and is starting to get nervous about a neighbour down the street who is twitching their blinds every two minutes to check on him, when she arrives. She's spotted his car, and comes over to him.

"It's not Sunday," she says, but she's smiling.

"I know." He holds aloft the bunch of flowers he's bought.

She raises an eyebrow. "Flowers?"

"I heard it's what people do," he offers.

Her smile twitches. "Wanna come in?" she asks, angling her head to her door.

"Always," he replies.

* * *

She's asleep now, breathing low and slow. Dying for a cigarette, he slips out of bed and crosses to her window. Naked, but safe enough behind the blinds. He opens the top half of the window and tries to direct the smoke outside, in dereference to Ruth's landlady's expressly and repeatedly conducted preferences.

He looks back at Ruth, illuminated in the moonlight from the window, and feels the edge of something unnameable rising in his chest. Fear, possibly, mingled with grief. That probably isn't normal, he thinks. Mourning a loss he's yet to—

"Sam," she says, voice cracked with sleep. "Come here."

"You don't get to tell me what to do," he says, doing as he's told and climbing back into bed. "I'm a director."

"Shut up," she says, curling around him.

He'll deal with tomorrow when it comes, he decides.


End file.
